


My Heart Is The Worst Kind Of Weapon

by semi_sweet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, And Butt Stuff, Blowjobs, Fake Dating, LiveJournal, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-hiatus, and a wedding, grumpy patrick, pete is a charmer, pete is a fucking emo, there is coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 12:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13927569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: Day 104. And when it all goes to hell will you be able to tell me you’re sorry with a straight face?Pete makes up for fucking up in a not-so-conventional way.





	My Heart Is The Worst Kind Of Weapon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> Snitches, I started this to cheer you up when you were miserable and you're not miserable anymore but this isn't going to waste so have it anyway!
> 
> Thank you to the_chaotic_panda for reading over this for me, you're fabulous!

It almost felt mean to say, but the kids were insufferable. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, they were adorable little bundles of joy, always jolly and happy and lively but that was sort of the problem right now. Their screeching combined with the endless chatter of pensioners about who had died and who had contracted what nasty illness from whom  _ and  _ with the dog barking, it was all literally too fucking much. What finally did it was the inevitable, that question that was asked every single year and every single, godforsaken year the answer was the exact same.

“And what about you, Patrick, do you have a girlfriend yet?”

 

Except this time, one of the kids screeched a little too loudly, loudly enough to mask the scrape of Patrick’s chair across the tiled floor. His mother was protesting as he stomped out of the room, but he blanked her. He put up with this bullshit far too much as it was, the niceties, the fake smiles, the false compliments, the small talk that never went anywhere yet pretended to be significant, he was done, he was out, he was going to his room.

 

Patrick hated Thanksgiving.

  
  


There was still loud chatter drifting up from downstairs, the piercing laugh of his damned aunt seconds away from giving him a headache. In the comfort of his blue-walled bedroom with the Star Wars and Ziggy Stardust posters encapsulating him in something safe and familiar, Patrick dragged his tank of a laptop out of his half-open suitcase that had somehow exploded the second it hit the floor. It whirred into life, the hard-drive whizzing its welcome as the colourful logo flashed across a blue background. Patrick stared at it until it announced it was done booting up the system, contemplating how much time of his life he had wasted watching an unmoving screen.

 

His mails were empty. Of course they were, had he expected anything else?

 

He scrambled for the internet cable that  _ must _ be somewhere under this pile of shit, it  _ must _ …. 

_ Aha! _ With a  _ ping _ it clicked into its socket and Patrick opened up the browser. When all else fails, LiveJournal will always cheer you up, right? Because nothing is more fun that combing through strangers’ diaries, strangers kind enough to expose their deepest, darkest secrets online because, of course, if it was  _ anonymous...  _ well, who would ever know if you were having a fucking breakdown? Nobody, that was who.

 

Not that Patrick posted much. Or ever, for that matter. He just enjoyed scrolling through miles and miles of blog posts he was way more invested in than he ever should be in the search of something so pathetically hilarious it caught his attention.

 

Today?

 

_ ahomeboyslife _

 

Obnoxious name. Promising.

 

Patrick clicked on the entry.

 

_ Day 265. Cloudy. The sky is overcast which seems appropriate. Slight drizzle of rain beating against the window pane. Swear that wasn’t meant to rhyme stuff just works out. Maybe I should write a song about you. Or not. Probably not. Would you show then? _

_ My little sister has a black teddy. He’s missing an eye, poor thing, she always stroked it as a kid. Too much love can take you apart. We have been warned by the teddy. _

_ Not much more to say. For now, know I am still waiting for you. You just need to reply. You be a rose and I’ll be your little Prince. Or if you don’t like that kind of thing, Axl Rose. _

_ Signing off, I’m alright in bed, but better with a pen. Stay overcast, kids. _

_ P _

 

At some point, Patrick’s eyebrows had raised almost to the height of his hairline. Literally, what had he just read? It was basically word vomit. Messy, incoherent, fake-deep word-vomit wrapped up in terrible metaphors he didn’t even understand.

Still, Patrick found himself clicking on the next entry.

 

_ Day 261. Progress report: I’m missing you to death. Which seems strange, I don’t know who you are. _

_ I’ll know. When I see you, I’ll know, you’ll be a golden kid within arm’s reach. I can kiss you. Can I do that? Or would you like to meet my mom first? All classy, maybe I’ll marry you first. _

_ Trade baby-blues for wide-eyed browns, I’d sleep in your old shirts and walk through your house in your shoes, I know it’s a strange way of saying I love you. _

_ Or maybe love is just fake and we’re all filled with stuffing. _

_ Still, I’d sleep on every piece of fuzz and stuffing that comes out of you. _

_ Send a message. _

_ P _

 

Forehead drawn into a tight frown, Patrick scrolled further down the Profile.

  
  


His eyes were sore. A quick glance at the clock confirmed his suspicions: 2am. Patrick’s eyes fixed back upon the blue of his screen.

 

_ Day 104. And when it all goes to hell will you be able to tell me you’re sorry with a straight face? _

 

Patrick hated himself as his cursor hit the  _ New Message _ icon. The window opened like it was taunting him, the stupid cursor blinking where it was daring him to write… what? What was he gonna say? This guy could totally be a nutter, Patrick had scrolled through half of his entries and come to the conclusion that the dude was evidently crazy.

 

_ Hi _

 

Hi. Well-fucking-done, Patrick, you dick.

 

_ Your entries are nice. _

 

Nice and creepy, what are you doing? Patrick stared at the screen waiting. Like a fucking idiot, as if this guy would just  _ happen _ to be online! He was wasting even more time of his life staring at a screen than he had to, he’d go square-eyed if he-

 

_ Hey. Thanks. I’m glad you like my ramblings. I don’t think about it much. I’m glad you read it. _

 

His brain couldn’t quite compute what his eyes were seeing. He’d replied. Homeboy had replied. Straight away.

 

_ You’re awake? _

 

Patrick’s eyes stayed fixed on the screen, waiting for the reply to appear. It didn’t take long.

 

_ I take it you’re in a middle-of-the-night time zone, too? _

 

His fingers drifted across the keyboard, spinning their response to the tune of chattering keys. It was probably stupid, talking to a stranger on the internet in the middle of the night, his mom would tell him off for it. Then again, his mom subjected him to his extended family twice a year. He was nineteen, he shouldn’t have to put up with this.

 

_ Central. Spent all evening hiding in my room because Thanksgiving is a thing and I don’t like my aunt, so your stuff was a welcome distraction. _

 

He paused, contemplating whether he was entitled to the answer he was seeking. But in the end, what the hell. If homeboy was prepared to disclose this much, he might as well spill all the beans.

 

_ Who are you writing about? Ex-girlfriend? _

 

The next answer took a while, long enough for it to make Patrick feel nervous that he’d overstepped. Not that it mattered, stranger on the internet. Neither of them would ever know.

_ No. just some girl, dunno. Or guy. I’ll know when I see them. I know I love them, I just haven’t met them yet. _

 

That was… nice. Patrick sort of resented the guy for making him feel something for this pretentious bullshit, but it was, it was nice. Hopeful, sort of. Terribly peculiar.

 

_ I hope you find them. _

_ Thank you. I hope you do, too. _

“Hey, dude, watch where the fuck you’re going! Ah… fuck!” Patrick glared at the dude with the dark hair as the hot coffee soaked through his shirt and burned his skin.

 

“Sorry! I’ll… ugh, what was it, I’ll give you money for… for another, I-“ the guy started rummaging around in his wallet, clinking through copper coins as his own coffee or… whatever the fuck that was tilted dangerously in his hand.

 

“Forget it, it’s… just, like… ugh, just fucking look out when you’re, like… storming through town like that…” he grabbed a handful of serviettes and dabbed at his shirt, desperately trying to get it dry, even if the obnoxious brown stain would never fade. Great. He made sure his tutting was audible.

 

“I’m really, really sorry, I can… buy you a new shirt, I… I owe you man, I’m sorry…” fucking fuck this guy and his fucking bangs and his stupid big, brown puppy eyes. Patrick just upheld the glare he was sending his way.

 

“Yeah, you fucking do… but, ugh, I don’t have time now, I…” Great, it was on his jeans, too, he looked like he’d fucking pissed himself.

 

“If… if you don’t have time now, I owe you, man, really, I’m so sorry, do you… I’ll give you my number and you can just…” Patrick opened his mouth, ready to tell this guy to chill, to drive it in a notch, he was being fucking ridiculous because of some shitty, white shirt that had cost him, what, ten bucks? Max. Fucking Christ.

 

But then a thought occurred to him. A stupid, ridiculous thought. One he definitely should sweep under the next best rug and condemn to doing little more than collect dust for all eternity. But, oh, it would save his weekend. Dude was pretty enough and… unconventional enough to throw everybody off and leave him the fuck alone to lead his hermit life in peace and quiet. Well, it was worth a try, right?

 

“I mean you could… are you free? This weekend?” A split second of confusion crossed the dude’s face.

 

“Sure, when? Saturday?”

 

“No, I mean like… the whole weekend.” The confusion returned, this time to stay.

 

“Uh… what.. are you… what…” Patrick let out a frustrated sigh, as though it should be obvious what he was doing!

 

“I’m going to my cousin’s wedding over the weekend and I need a date. Like, fuck, if I don’t have one I’ll have to put up with all the questions!” The guy was looking at him like he was mad, “oh come on, please, just pretend! It’s a fancy-ass hotel and you can have the bed or whatever, please!” It was awkward to say the least, the dark-haired guy was looking at Patrick like he’d lost all his marbles. Which, admittedly, he might have. But that wasn’t for him to question.

 

The guy glanced over his shoulder as though he were looking for somebody. “Dude, I’m happy to replace the shirt, but it was like, what, twenty bucks, max? I’m not spending a romantic getaway with some dude I don’t know.” 

 

Patrick sighed in frustration. He just didn’t  _ get it _ , did he? “It’s not… look, it’s literally just three nights in the Waldorf Astoria, you get free food and shit and I get my peace and quiet and you don’t have to feel guilty for ruining my best shirt.” He was crazy for begging. He didn’t want this guy to judge him but he was obviously totally off his head. He’d snapped. This was it. Next stop: Looney bin. Time to fly over the motherfucking cuckoo’s nest.

 

What he didn’t expect was the casual shrug. 

 

“I’m Pete, by the way. Thought it might be handy if you knew your boyfriend’s name.”

  
  
  


Annoyingly, the room was nice.  _ Too  _ nice. Patrick mourned for the time he could have spent here all alone reading housewife porn and doing absolutely nothing between meals. As it was, he had his  _ boyfriend _ literally walking around on the mattress, barefoot, thankfully, complaining that there were only three pillows. Three. Patrick had one, small cushion because he’d been banned from taking anything off the bed. This had been a terrible idea.

 

“You know,” Pete piped up from where he’d flopped onto the bed. The nice, big, comfy-looking bed, “this was a fantastic idea!”

  
  
  


“So, Pete, dearest, what do you do?” Of course, Patrick had forgotten about his mother. His own mom and her potential interest in any boyfriend. He had not thought this through. Patrick was just glad that they all knew he was gay as a post. 

 

“I work in a soap shop, actually.” Patrick nearly choked on the probably over-priced soup. Did he hear that correctly? A soap shop? Was that even a  _ thing _ ?! Evidently his mother felt similarly about it.

 

“A… a soap… shop?” That polite smile he often found on himself was fixed on her face. He could see right past it. “And… and what exactly does one do working in a soap shop?”

 

“Well,” Pete began explaining, “ours is organic and vegan, all-natural products, it’s a local thing, so we make all the stuff ourselves. It’s obviously bars of soap, but not just that, like, there’s bath-bombs and body butter and shampoo-bars and like bath oils and shit. The smell of the place knocks you out, really.” His mom looked very confused. 

 

“And… and how did you two meet?” 

 

“Ah, well…” Patrick’s instinct wanted to pull away as Pete laced their fingers together. He suppressed it. “I ran into this golden kid. Spilled his coffee all down himself, I had to clean him up, right, baby?” Wow. okay. Patrick felt heat rising to his cheeks in reaction to the inappropriate comment. It took him all the restraint he had not to flinch and pull away when he noticed Pete leaning in closer. He did his very best not to scowl when a pair of  _ way too soft _ lips brushed against his cheek. Actually, Pete  _ did _ smell kinda nice.

 

“Ah, well, I’m happy for both of you. I’ve been wondering when Patrick would finally bring somebody home. Not that… this is home or anything, but you know what I mean…” What a  ridiculous comment. As if Pete wasn’t fully aware that they  _ didn’t _ live in a five-star hotel. If they did, Patrick certainly wouldn’t be still working in a fucking shop. 

  
  


The rest of the evening was an uneventful blur of people and faces and an annoyingly excited, squeaky cousin. Patrick did his best to steer clear of her, only to be reminded of the fact that he was carting around the raw embodiment of excess energy himself. Pete kept making unnecessary comments whenever they passed a single one of Patrick’s family members, made a point to display an  _ annoying _ amount of affection, perfectly executed with a bright, gleaming grin that totally did not make Patrick’s stomach flip, probably groped his ass once or twice and would  _ not _ shut up about wanting to steal the waiter's moustache because it  _ had _ to be fake, right? 

 

It got awkward when the crowd started to disappear and people made their way to their rooms. Needless to say, Patrick  _ insisted _ on staying as long as he could possibly bear  it, the other option being locked in a room with what might be the most annoying human he had ever encountered. However, time didn’t stop, not even for Patrick Stump, and eventually, he had the choice of listening to his… cousin’s best friend’s husband’s story about the fucking dog and the roast turkey one more time or going to bed with Pete.

 

Well, no, not going to bed with him, just to the room. And that was only to sleep there. Because he needed sleep. Obviously. 

 

The little sofa in the room did not look comfortable, not at all. Patrick suspected it was more decorative than actually functional, but hey, what choice did he have? He was young, he could handle this! Twenty-two-year-olds slept in weird places all the time! Still, he didn’t feel happy with his fate as he skulked towards the piece of cheap furniture…

 

“Hey, dude, it’s a double bed!” Pete piped up from behind him. Patrick turned and glared at him. Why was he grinning again? It wasn’t fair! 

 

“Awh, come on, sweetheart, we’re supposed to be a couple here! Couples don’t sleep apart when there’s fucking king-sized beds!” The puppy pout almost killed Patrick. 

 

“I’m not sharing a bed with you.” 

 

“Baby, you’re breaking my heart! Don’t reject me like this!” Patrick sloped off to the bathroom with his little bag of toiletries. It was one of those hotel bathrooms where they had 50 different little bottles of lotion standing around, everything was neatly arranged, there were no cheap, plastic cups or magical toothpaste-shaving-cream-shower-gel-shampoo-face-wash formulae that usually graced the showers of the types of places Patrick could actually afford to stay in on the rare occasion he would travel. 

 

The clean-polished mirror revealed grey lines under his eyes he somehow wasn’t surprised by and the long mess of blond hair his mother bullied him about cutting, along with the sideburns she insisted he shave but this was his face, thank you very much. He brushed his teeth defiantly, though he wasn’t sure how that was possible, and slipped into his pyjamas. The Star Wars ones, obviously, because he was an adult and could do what he liked.

 

He nearly choked when he wandered back out of the bathroom. Pete had stripped down to his underwear - boxer-briefs, nonetheless, not leaving much to the imagination - and was pulling that weird, unnecessary throw thing they put on in these hotels off the bed. Patrick ignored the twitch of his cock when he saw how taught muscles stretched beneath golden skin. 

 

Pete’s smile was - annoyingly - as bright as ever. “Pat!” Ew.

 

“Don’t call me that. Ever.”

 

“Trick!” Ugh. Whatever. 

 

“I’ll share the fucking bed with you but only because I don’t want to wake up with a wrecked back.” Pete beamed at him and hop-skipped off into the bathroom. Hopefully to remove that god-awful eyeliner. 

  
  
  
  


Patrick awoke to a knocking at the door. It took him a second to register his surroundings that, oh yeah, he wasn’t at home, but in the comfiest fucking bed he could possibly dream up, sleeping on a cloud, like he’d died and gone to heaven where he totally deserved to-

 

“Morning, sweetheart.”

 

“FUCK!” And yeah, Patrick did fall out of heaven, taking the duvet with him and knocking his head on the bedside table as he went. As he lie groaning on the floor, a grinning face appeared above him. 

 

“Forgotten about me already?” 

 

“Fuck off, Jesus…”

 

“You can call me Pete.”

 

“Fuck off.” 

 

_ “Is everything alright in there?” _

 

“Just peachy!” Pete called before Patrick could even think about getting his mouth open. Wow, why was he like this? Patrick scrambled off the floor and tried to untangle himself from the duvet he was caught in.

 

_ “Breakfast is served!” _

 

Patrick actually wanted to just shout “okay” at the girl he presumed was staff - he didn’t recognize the voice - but again, Pete beat him to it. 

 

“Just let us finish off here and we’ll come!” Okay, he caught that. Even in his obliviousness, he fucking caught that. He glared at Pete, who, of course, grinned and shrugged. His eyes were all sleepy and wrinkly it was sort of…

 

Patrick shook the thought off and grabbed fresh clothes out of the suitcase. Not the actual suit yet, obviously, that was saved for the big day tomorrow. Pete had also sprung up and was rummaging around in his own bag. Patrick made sure to get into the bathroom before it ended up being occupied.

  
  
  


Pete was charming. 

 

He hated to admit it, but he was. Not necessarily in the way where he conducted himself near perfectly according to social etiquette, the way Patrick had learned, he was just nice. Somehow everything he said made  _ somebody _ laugh (Patrick, more often than not) and whilst he was a bit clumsy at times, everything about him said that every single one of his words was meant well. 

 

Patrick was on his fourth glass of champagne, following around his newly acquired  _ boyfriend _ because it was easy. Everybody seemed to like Pete and if they liked Pete, it made a good impression for Patrick which was handy because he didn‘t even have to work for it. 

 

Just the questions about their relationship were a little odd. 

 

“How long have you been together?“

 

“Four months“, Pete would answer.

 

“How did you meet?”

 

Pete would tell the coffee story.

 

“Are you two serious?”

 

“Yes”, Pete would answer. 

 

Patrick snuck off at that point under the premise of needing a piss. More like needed a fucking break, but-

 

“Rick, honey!“ Would he ever escape? His mom was smiling at him brightly, she looked positively…  _ young _ . Don‘t get him wrong, Patrick loved his mom but she‘d always just been, well, his old mom. But now she was jolly and refreshed and it was nice.

 

“I was speaking with Pete before,“ -  _ ah -  _ “He‘s lovely. A little odd, maybe,  _ very _ eccentric, but a lovely boy… are you…“ she lowered her voice and leaned in a little closer, “d‘you think he might be…  _ the one _ ?“

 

Patrick didn‘t want to let her down. He was twenty-fucking-two and she was acting like he was a bachelor in his forties on the best course to ending up a lonely, old fart. He didn‘t get it! It wasn‘t like he‘d  _ never _ had a boyfriend, he‘d even had a  _ girlfriend _ at one point! Still, she seemed urgent to marry him off like he was some Victorian princess who needed to find a husband before she hit twenty-five. 

 

“I don‘t know yet, mom“ he replied weakly, “he‘s nice, I like him but, well, you know, four months isn‘t really enough time to decide.“  _ He‘ll be gone by Tuesday _ . She smiled and nodded understandingly. 

 

Patrick felt bad.

 

Patrick drank some more champagne.

 

“Woah, how much of that have you had?” Pete was suddenly in front of him, all big smiles and brown eyes and Patrick had to admit he was fucking gorgeous. Even if he was wearing eyeliner. Fucking  _ eyeliner _ , who wore eyeliner?! 

 

“I don’t know, I’m not keeping count,” he said and took a big gulp. He didn’t even like champagne much. 

 

“Don’t you think you should save the drinking for the actual wedding?” Pete laughed nervously as though this was a bad joke which, honestly, all things considered, yeah, this was all sort of a bad joke. 

 

“Whatever, I’m not drunk or anything, just not prepared to put up with this sober like… this wouldn’t be so  _ bad _ if it weren’t for my  _ fucking aunt _ .” He took another swig. 

 

Pete glanced around the room, brow furrowed. Patrick couldn’t help but marvel at the way his tendons pulled tight in his neck, clearly defined against tan skin that would look so fucking good with a bruise the shape of his lips…

 

“Which one? The one with the terrible wig?” His eyes fixed on Patrick’s charming Aunty Meg who could not admit to herself that she was approaching sixty. She was the type that suited twice divorced, except she wasn’t, she was stuck with her useless husband because the stupid cow never got herself a job and was totally dependent on him, which made her a pretty miserable sack of shit who for some reason liked to not like Patrick. Or maybe he just didn’t like her and it rubbed off. How did these things work?

 

“That’s the one.” 

 

“Hmm, see what you mean…” Patrick noticed how pretty this guy’s eyes were when he turned back to face him. “Wanna get out for a bit?”

 

“Fuck, yeah.” Pete smirked and held out his hand, wiggling his fingers. Patrick stared at it like he’d never seen anything like it in his life. “Come on, trust me. Nobody will follow if I drag you out of here.” He hesitated, but laced their fingers together. Pete’s skin was rough, not at all soft or smooth, but he was warm and gentle and Patrick wondered why he hadn’t taken his hand sooner.

 

_ Oh yeah, because you’re just pretending. _

 

Why was Pete so close all of a sudden? He was all Patrick could see, like he had tunnel vision, fixed on whiskey eyes. 

 

“Just go with it.” Pete muttered and Patrick was pretty sure their noses were touching. He wasn’t quite sure what was happening, he found himself caught between wanting to shove this dumb, eyeliner-wearing headass who had thrown a fucking venti Starbucks over him away because they were  _ not _ a thing, he was  _ not _ dating an emo kid, and wanting to be fucked right up against the wall he was leaning on. Though not as badly as he wanted to kick Pete in the nuts. Obviously. That was what he wanted. Later. For now, he wouldn’t be opposed to just one kiss...

 

Before he could dwell on that thought, he felt his arm being yanked away from him and found himself stumbling behind Pete, who was very decidedly dragging him out of the large “mingling room”. He’d been right, nobody stopped them. Patrick was pretty certain he caught one of his cousins - were they cousins? No idea, he lost track - snickering as he was whizzed past. He wasn’t sure where Pete was taking him, just that his feet were staggering up the wide flight of stairs trying to keep up with the man dragging him along. He figured they were headed to their room, but Pete carried on past it to a smaller staircase, much smaller, almost inconspicuously so. Patrick followed, unquestioningly, because what else was he gonna do? 

 

As it turned out, Pete knew exactly where he was headed.

 

“How the fuck did you know-” 

 

“Shush, don’t question it, it spoils the magic.” There was a little, iron table with two chairs near the heavy, stone banister at the edge of the roof. Pete plopped down into one and let out a long sigh. Patrick hesitated for a second before sitting down next to him. 

 

“Your family is a tonne of work.” 

 

“Yeah, fucking tell me about it. You know why I dragged you along now?” Pete stretched, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a trail of hair from his navel to his-

 

“Not really, I mean, you’re just standing in a corner getting drunk anyway. Besides, still a little weird, the whole getting a stranger off the streets to fake-date you so you don’t look like a lonely loser to your extended family.” Patrick scowled at the comment.

 

“I’m not lonely.”   
  


“Ah, but you are a loser!” He was grinning again. Fucking  _ fuck _ him, how could his mom, his  _ own mother, _ seriously believe he was dating this dick?

 

“Come on, it’s a wedding. Everybody feels lonely at a wedding.” There was maybe a slither of truth to that. But again, he was only twenty-two, plenty of time to waste finding somebody to get hitched with, he didn’t get the fuss at all, really. 

 

“Let me guess, recently split up and therefore think all relationships are bullshit founded on lies and lust and it’s just a waste of time?” Patrick shook his head. Actually no, he didn’t think that. He still believed in true love or whatever the fuck it might be, just not… now. For him. For him and now. Or ever? Whatever, he didn’t wanna think about it.

 

“Nah, I’m just the short, fat kid, I don’t exactly have people lining up for me.” He cringed the second he said it. Playing the awkward self-pity card was always a bit weird, even if he tried to play it off as a joke. 

 

“I’d do you.”

 

Patrick’s eyes bulged and he choked on thin air, coughing and spluttering as Pete didn’t even look vaguely in his direction. 

 

“I mean, just going by your looks. You’re kind of a dick, if I’m honest, I don’t know if I think you’re great or fucking awful, but you’re cute enough.” Patrick hated how easily he blushed.

 

“Uh. thanks. I guess. But, yeah, you’re… you’re a jerk, you know… you’re too… too fucking loud and cocky.”  _ And fucking cute, fuck. _

 

Pete shrugged, “so I’ve been told. Good job you don’t actually have to put up with me, right?” Patrick bit his lip and looked down at his hands in his lap.

 

“Though I have to say, the food  _ is _ good, so thanks for inviting me, Tricky!” 

 

“You’re welcome…”  _ well that was a dumb thing to say you fucking idiot.  _ “Don’t worry, only one more day and you’ll have me out of your hair.” Patrick hated that he felt a little disappointed about that. 

  
  
  
  
  


Pete was writing in a little notebook when Patrick crawled into his side of the bed. The little light on the bedside table was drowning him in a warm glow, it reflected off his eyes and made them golden. Patrick shuffled as far to the edge of the mattress as he could. 

 

“What you writing?” Pete didn’t even lift his pen off the page.

 

“Poetry.” Poetry? Patrick found himself propped up on one elbow, curiosity overcoming him.

 

“No, you can’t look. It’s not… not meant for you.” There was something sharp in Pete’s voice, something almost aggressive, something Patrick hadn’t heard between the lighthearted jokes and the teasing. He recoiled quickly, slumping into his pillow.

 

“Alright, alright, who do you think you are, fucking Shakespeare?”

 

“No, but it’s still my art and none of your shitting business!”

 

“What’s the point of art if nobody consumes it, dickweed?”

 

“Oh, I dunno, maybe I’m more of a  _ l’art pour l’art _ guy?! Not that you should even care!”

 

“Fine! I don’t care about your shitty poetry!”

 

“And I don’t care about your fucking attitude! You can say please and thanks and ask for stuff once in a while, you know?!” Pete was  _ actually _ mad! As if Patrick owed him a damn thing! Who did this bitch think he was?!

 

“I get you’re some… fuckin’ cute, blonde, twinky thing, but lay off the scowl once in a while, god damn!” That closed the conversation. Mainly because Patrick’s comeback arrived with a two-minute delay but hey, what d’ya wanna do? He huffed pointedly instead, coming off more like a yapping pomeranian than the bulldog he was aiming for and flipped onto his side, back facing Pete. Of course. If he was gonna be a dick, he could kiss his ass and stare at it. 

 

Fucking thanks you get for offering your hotel bed to some low-rent Samuel Beckett that spent too much time crying over his fringe and probably vampires because why not throw them into the mix, too?

 

He was still awake when the light eventually clicked out. He was still awake for the whisper of his name. He was still awake when Pete settled down with a sigh, pulling the covers over himself so Patrick’s stomach was unceremoniously hanging out in the open. Fucking great.

  
  
  
  
  


“Will you FUCKING turn that off?!” Patrick yelled from his spot in front of the bathroom mirror where he was desperately trying to tame his hair whilst being nonconsensually blasted with Nelly Furtado. 

 

“You’re a fucking buzzkill, Trickster!” Pete yelled and then immediately fell right back into song. Well. Wail. He was wailing, not singing. Patrick was seriously contemplating using the nail scissors to stab out his eardrums. 

 

A final glance in the mirror confirmed it wouldn’t be getting any better than this, no matter how many times he switched between ties, trying to figure out what went best with the dark blue suit he’d dragged out from the back of his wardrobe - his mom had insisted he find something plain rather than the usual stripes and plaid he’d go with - and eventually settled on the boring black. He sighed and walked out of the bathroom and-

 

He nearly choked on thin air when he saw his plus one, in front of the full-length next to the dresser, putting whatever shit kind of product into his hair, butt swaying in time to Rihanna in a sharp, black suit. Pete turned and grinned when he noticed Patrick behind him and wow… just… wow…

 

“You okay there, babes?” 

 

“I, uuuuh… I, I… I…” That fucking  _ smile _ . Patrick wanted to wipe it right off his face, instead replace it with those beautiful, puckered lips curved in a blissful-

 

“Hello? Earth calling Patrick? We good to go? We’ve got half an hour to the big do! Time to head to church?” Patrick stuttered a reply along the lines of “yeah, fuck you”. A hat was shoved on his head before he was pushed out of the door.

  
  
  
  


At least they’d been sat in the corner of the room. His mom had seemed insulted by the fact that Patrick wasn’t at the front with the rest of them, but he shut her down before she could open up the argument and put Patrick in a prime mingling spot. He was perfectly happy in his corner. His corner and him were buddies, they were gonna spend the night together, they should get to know each other over dinner first. 

 

Pete wolfed down his goose (who has goose served at a wedding?) as though he hadn’t just eaten two starters and been at the nibbles all morning. Patrick, meanwhile, half-heartedly poked at his steamed veg. He loved not eating meat, really, made him super happy when he got bland and boring meals whilst everybody around him was feasting. The wine was good, he supposed, that was a plus. And so far, the only person who’d initiated conversation had been some guy even whiter than himself, if possible, with an expensive watch on his wrist and a kid in a high chair between him and his wife. The kid was cute. It was a cute little baby. It made Patrick not quite as opposed to the notion of procreating as his uncle’s newest little shit did. Not that he would ever procreate. The only thing his dick was going into was another man’s ass. Or mouth. He wasn’t particularly picky about that aspect. That ended that argument rather quickly. Could he fuck anybody here?

 

“Do you even like men?” He threw the question at Pete over crême brulée that nearly caused the cheap-ass emo whose suit was definitely on the H&M end of the range rather than the taylormade Louis Vuitton end. Whatever. It suited the cheap eyeliner. And Patrick would still bang him. Maybe that was the wine talking. Whatever, he was a dick, they might as well fuck if they weren’t dating or… wait, how did this work?

 

“Sure, I like men”, Pete mumbled through a full mouth. Patrick let it slide. Okay. Cool. He was still a poetry-writing, cheap-suit wearing, eyeliner-sporting headass. Patrick’s head was sort of all over the place and then-

 

“Hey, you two, shuffle together, will you?”

 

“HUH?!” Patrick yelled, a little too loudly, at the man who had appeared next to him. He was holding a camera. Fucking great. 

 

“You’re a couple, yeah?” The photographer looked somewhat impatient, finger already hovering over the release. 

 

“I...n-”

 

“YES!” Pete jumped in, “yes, of course.” Patrick  _ wanted _ to scowl at him, wanted to tell him to fuck off, he wasn’t gonna be on a fucking couple photo, his family had been fooled, they were leaving him alone, there was no need to-

 

The flash went off in the back of Patrick’s mind, but he was too preoccupied with the lips suddenly attached to his… they were soft and warm… Patrick felt… he felt…

 

Pete was back at throwing caramelized sugar down his throat before Patrick could even make sense of what happened. The result of this was, obviously, a wide-mouthed stare, unmet, of course, Pete was busy, after all. 

 

He’d just… Pete had just kissed him.  _ Pete _ . Patrick didn’t know whether to punch him or to go back for more. 

 

It was  _ just _ for the photo! That was all! Just a photo! Pete was here to keep his extended family off his back and offer a quick escape, nothing more!

 

That was all. They weren’t together.

  
  
  
  
  


The evening was SO much more bearable. Everybody was drunk, which helped. Everybody was dancing, which also helped. Patrick found that standing in the middle of the crowd and faintly swaying his hips got him the least attention. What got him even less attention, he noticed, was when Pete was standing behind him, hands on his hips, pulling him close so Patrick could feel him through his trousers. He was, if he was honest, too drunk to care. He twisted his head until he could catch Pete’s lips with his own. It was soft and chaste first, barely-there butterfly kisses between hesitant men, but it soon deepened. Patrick felt a tongue drive over his bottom lip, asking for entrance and he permitted it, opening his mouth to let Pete in, Pete, who was now firmly pressed against him so Patrick couldn’t help but notice him pushing into his ass. He broke apart, just enough to be able to look Pete in the eye. He looked nervous, uncertain… 

 

Patrick could still feel the brush of his lips when he asked the question. “Can I fuck you?” Pete nodded, leaning in to reclaim his lips for one last kiss before he laced their fingers together and gave Patrick an expectant look. He was breathing heavily.

 

They weaved their way through the crowd and out of the room, kissed in the hallway, stumbled up the stairs together, already loosening ties and undoing belts (they may have attracted some shocked gazes along the way) until they fell into what they hoped was their room, logic letting them forget their key wouldn’t work on any door that wasn’t theirs. 

 

Patrick threw Pete against the polished wood of the door to slam it shut, his hands pinned next to his head as they kissed frantically, tongues and teeth and lips colliding again and again as Patrick ground their hips together desperately. Fuck, he wanted Pete, he wanted to  _ ruin _ him and his stupid smile and his fucking make-up and ridiculous hair.

 

“Wanted you all night”, he muttered against his lips, words he didn’t even know he needed to say toppling off his lips, “your fucking grin, fuck…” his fingers were working open the buttons of the cheap, white shirt stretched over Pete’s torso until it peeled aside enough to reveal a necklace of thorns and… Patrick traced the tips of his fingers over the odd bat-thing decoration Pete’s stomach right below his navel. 

 

“Naughty boy…” he teased, making Pete flash him that fucking grin. “When did you get it?” 

 

“When I was 16… you like it?” No. Patrick didn’t like it. It was fucking ugly and emo and cringey. But it was hot. He dropped to his knees so it was at his eye-level, right in front of him, distorted heart filling his vision. He licked over it, leaving a damp trail across Pete’s inked skin and making him sigh. His cock was hard against his trousers. Patrick popped the button on them, slid down the zipper carefully and stared up at Pete, whose hand was resting on his jaw, thumb stroking over scraggly sideburns. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as his trousers dropped around his ankles and Patrick hooked his index finger in the waistband of his pants. A thing trail of black hair was teasing its way into the boxer briefs, not shaved, but clipped short and boy, did Patrick hope it was a preview for what was to come. He slowly dragged the underwear down, letting Pete’s cock spring free. Smooth, dark, not especially big, but he could definitely work with it. 

 

Patrick lightly stroked his thumb along the underside, sending a shudder through Pete’s body. He locked their eyes as he leaned in and placed open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, his left hand carefully cupping Pete’s balls, getting a feel for him. He inhaled the musty scent of  _ man _ , the one he loved too? so? fucking much, the one trapped between Pete’s legs. Patrick took one last, deep breath and allowed his lips to wrap around the head of Pete’s dick. Just the head, he wanted to take his time with this one. Pete sighed happily above him, hand still on his cheek, but just laying there, not guiding him or urging him on. Good. He would go at his own pace.

 

Patrick gradually took more and more of Pete into his mouth, making it slow and as casual as possible, pulling off every once in a while to let his hand stroke along the throbbing dick instead as he nuzzled along Pete’s thighs, his stomach, his balls… 

 

“Fuck, Trick, please…” he panted as Patrick placed a kiss on his tip.

 

“Patience, darling. We’re just getting started here.” Pete’s fingers tangled in his messy hair - hat long forgotten, uh… somewhere - and he moaned quietly when Patrick turned back to sucking at his head. He tried bucking his hips but, oh no, none of that. Patrick immediately pulled off. Instead, he sucked two of his fingers into his mouth, all the time keeping eye contact, letting them slide between his lips, slicking them up, making sure they were as wet as he could get them before he turned his attention back to Pete’s now-leaking dick. 

 

He wasn’t fucking around now. He took him in as far as he dared, so it was tickling on the edge of his gag reflex, just this side of pleasant. Pete was now openly moaning, his hips shaking with the effort it took to keep them still. Patrick slipped his first finger into him, just the tip, carefully circling it around the ring of muscle to make sure he was welcome. Pete’s sudden whine was indication enough for him to let it sink in fully, he crooked it and pumped his hand slowly, feeling Pete out, finding all his sports, stroking him attentively, all the while licking along his cock.

 

“Fuck, fuck, Patrick, your fucking mouth… Jesus, your mouth…” Pete sounded like he might cry if he didn’t get to come soon. He’d just have to keep it together. Then again, he was a fucking emo kid, they didn’t mind crying.

 

“Jesus, okay.. Okay, please, please fuck me… Patrick, fuck me…” Patrick slowly let his fingers slide out, collected the few white droplets that were crowning Pete’s dick with his mouth and stood up again, slipping Pete’s shirt off his shoulders until he was fully naked save the shoes. 

 

“Fuck me”, he breathed into the sloppy kisses, “please, fuck me…” Patrick took a step back, motioning him to the bed. Pete stepped out of his shoes and trousers, hips swaying as he strolled across the room. Patrick, meanwhile, slipped out of his own shoes and jacket. He kept his shirt and trousers on for good measure, decided that if Pete wanted him, he could undress him. 

 

He crawled onto the bed over Pete, framing him with his body, and brought their mouths together for more kissing. The beat of the reception downstairs was sounding up to them. Patrick stroked over Pete’s naked torso. He could feel the buttons of his shirt being worked open and the cotton being slipped off his shoulders. His breath hitched as Pete’s fingers brushed over a pebbled nipple and Pete smirked at him.  _ Fuck _ , of course he did. He leaned towards Patrick, sealing his lips around the tight, pink flesh and sucking lightly, the way Patrick had been not too long ago. He tried to hold back the high whine, he really did, but this was his fucking weakness. 

 

What was also rather distracting from self-composure was Pete fiddling with his fly. It took him  _ forever _ to get it open, eventually flicking the button and practically tearing open the zipper. Patrick rubbed against him, only a thin pair of cotton briefs in the way. Fuck, it was too hot already, he was losing his mind. 

  
When Pete peeled back his pants, he let out a low groan at the sight of Patrick’s cock. Yeah. He knew it was… large. Still, the reassurance was always welcome. 

  
“You think you can take it all?” he whispered in Pete’s ear as a skilled hand worked his dick, “you think you can take all of me?”

 

“Yeah… fuck, yeah…” Pete breathed, shuffling beneath him until he could hitch his legs around Patrick’s waist. 

 

“I… fuck, do you have lube?” Pete smirked. Again. “Always. In my backpack.” Patrick stumbled off the bed “who the fuck carries lube around in their backpack?”   
  


“Me, fucker.” Whatever. Patrick found it easily enough, then flicked through his wallet in search of the condom he hid away in there. You never knew.

 

“Fuck, fuck, please, Trick…” Pete’s legs were back around his waist, hands around the back of his neck. All Patrick had to do was push… he just had to push forward.

 

“FUCK, fuck! Ah….” Pete almost  _ screamed _ when Patrick slammed into him in one swift move, not giving either of them any time to adjust. Pete was whimpering beneath him, biting his fist as his eyes welled up. Patrick kissed his brow. “You okay, baby?”

 

“Yeah”, he panted, “yeah, just… fuck, move, please.” And move Patrick did. He started out tender at first, trying to make up for having been so rough, but Pete was soon squirming uncomfortably, urging him to pick up pace. He was sweating, way, way too much for it to be attractive in any way, but what did it matter? Not like he was seeing the guy ever again. He grabbed the backs of Pete’s thighs and pushed them up against his chest, leaning forward to change the angle and…

 

“OH!  _ Fuck, FUCK, Jesus, Patrick _ ….  _ Your… fuck, your fucking cock! _ !” Patrick smiled to himself as he began slamming into and out of Pete, driving himself closer, closer, inch by inch. He was buried all the way, couldn’t go deeper, he was balls-deep inside the most beautiful fucking man he’d…

 

“FUCK! I’M… PATRICK I’M…” He was a fucking screamer. Patrick found himself singing along to Pete’s tune as they hit their high together, an explosion like a million, billion bombs going off and tearing them apart, Patrick thought he might pass out as he spilled into the latex separating him from Pete’s body. That thin barrier reminding him they weren’t close, they  _ weren’t, they weren’t... _

 

Utterly spent, he collapsed on top of the fucking idiot with the dark bangs and the eyeliner. The grin was off his face. He looked dazed. 

 

The music was still pulsing downstairs when Pete flicked off the light moments later. They lay in darkness, listening to the sounds of the party, arm in arm, as close as they could get. It was nice. It was comfortable. Something not unlike dread nagged at Patrick’s consciousness. 

 

“Pete…” he said to Jack Skellington. 

 

“Yeah?” He sounded exhausted. Was it any surprise? Why the fuck had Patrick dragged him into this, anyway? It was so fucking dumb, the whole situation. He couldn’t help but laugh.

 

And laugh he did. Except he wasn’t alone in it. And soon enough, they were sharing the space between them, entangled in each other, the ridiculousness of the whole situation hitting them both as they chuckled to themselves, bodies shaking in unison. Pete pressed a kiss to Patrick’s head and he knew he didn’t have to ask him to stay.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Day… I don’t know, if I’m honest. _

_ It doesn’t matter. Nothing will ever matter again, the world could tear my guts to shreds and I would be fine. I found you. At the back of a mall, of all the places. Grumpy and rude. It’s okay, I don’t mind golden trash. It’s something special. You’re something special.  _

_ You do not know, but every move was smooth and calculated, every line plotted and designed to leave you standing by your bedroom window waiting for me. _

_ So far, you’ve not voodood me to an early grave and I have nothing worth gold digging so I think this might be the real deal. _

_ It had better be. I’m gonna have more rings than the ones around my eyes buried with me now.  _

_ We live together in a castle in the sky, our neighbours are care bears and everything is cotton candy if we want it to be.  _

_ You’re butterflies and kittens and first kisses and warm log fires and good books on a rainy day. Trust me, I sliced you right open to check. _

_ I’m your black teddy. _

_ You can have my eye. I don’t need it. _

_ I love you. _

_ P _


End file.
